


Learning Curve

by chalahandra



Series: Polyquisition [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cleaning House (Quest), Fluff, Gen, The Storm Coast, past trauma, why is it always raining on the bloody coast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:37:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4761893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalahandra/pseuds/chalahandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Bull knew the Inquisitor was (allegedly) a Qunari, and therefore, he thought he knew how to handle her. His expectations couldn't have been more wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain, Rain, Please Bloody Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iron Bull meets the Herald.

The 'Vints aren't posing that much of a challenge, but they've got mages. Dalish is doing her best, but there's one of her, and three of them, not to mention the rest of the buggers.

That's when a dark shadow launches off the top of a nearby cliff, lightning shooting from a staff to strike the closest Vints. With a roar, The Iron Bull charges into the fray, sea spray and blood mixing to give his skin a lifelike tint. If Krem's intel was right, this would be the Herald of Andraste - he'd said that they were a mage.

The new mage gives them the edge to crush the Vints back against the cliffs, and he purposefully ignores the presence of the new people. It itches, like horns going without balm. But he can deal with that. He has his own people to look after first.  
  
"Hot damn, it is true!" Bull roars with laughter - there's no mistaking the horns and height on this one. And she - what a _woman!_ \- has skin that's as blue as the midnight sky. "Oh, the Chantry must _love_ you. A Qunari mercenary is the Herald of Andraste. Who'd'a thought?"

Her eyes - pale yellow, like fine booze - narrow. Struck a nerve there. _Good_. The sooner he finds out what makes this Herald tick, the better. She didn't hit any of the Chargers, so that's a good mark in his book.

"Vashoth, not Qunari." But she smiles, and it's like he never said anything at all. "I heard you mention casks - got anything against a few cups coming my way?" He nods, and tosses his horns slightly away from the rest of the Chargers.

It's weird to look at someone in the eyes after so long of always looking down. Kinda refreshing.  
  
"Golden Scythe 4:90 Black. It'd kill the grass if we spilled any." The Herald laughs low and kneels down amongst the pebbles as he takes up a seat on a crate. Rivaini dancer style, if he had to name it. Another oddity. Blue-skinned mage Vashoth mercenary who moves and sits like a harem girl, but survived an explosion that leveled a mountaintop.

"If there was any grass to kill, you mean." She raises an eyebrow, canting her head to the side in a typical Qunari shrug. Damn, but if that didn't feel nostalgic. The South is no Seheron - and he's glad for that, don't get him wrong - but his people aren't exactly common. When they are around, they're usually Tal-Vashoth, worse than rabid dogs.

But the Herald? She's just like... Fuck him, she's reminding him of the Tamassrans. Similar mannerisms, similar lack of shit-taking, similar gods-damned horns.  
  
"I trust you remember Cremisius Aclassi, my lieutenant." Herald nods to Krem, and Krem nods back, a smile on his face.

"Good to see you again." It's soft and low, not what he'd expect from Krem talking to a potential employer. But from what he's heard, the Herald of Andraste does that. Gets people to show sides of themselves that they normally keep hidden away. "Throatcutters are done, chief."

"Already? Have 'em check again. I don't want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem." It's an old pantomime, one they both know the steps to.

"None taken. At least a bastard knows who his mother was. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?" And off he goes again - and he's definitely not mistaking that look in the Herald's eyes. Pain. Family left behind, if they're not dead. Vashoth means _born_ free, never knowing the Qun, knowing what it's like to have parents.  
  
Not that he wonders what that's like.  
  
"So. You've seen us fight. We're expensive, but we're worth it." Might as well give her the whole spiel. Skinner comes over with two mugs, and a glare for the newcomer - Bull raises an eyebrow when the Herald mutters what he now knows to be an Elvhen thank you. He chuckles, and continues. "And I'm sure the Inquisition can afford us."  
  
She tilts her head back, rainwater running down her simple vitaar (one of the Vashoth designs, because it sure didn't ring any bells), and regards him carefully. Looks him up and down real slow.  
  
"How much is this going to cost me, exactly?" _Damn_. Krem hadn't warned him that she was a flirt!  
  
"You, personally? Nothing... Unless you wanna buy drinks later." She takes a long pull of hers, and waggles her eyebrows at him. _Women_. "Your ambassador, what's her name... Josephine! We'll go through her, get the payment all set up. Gold will take care of itself, don't worry about that. All that matters is that we're worth it."  
  
Spiel over, he finally takes a drink - Golden Scythe isn't smooth, but it's better tasting than a lot of the shit on offer. And it travels well, which is the main reason he bought five barrels of the stuff in Denerim. There's a long moment where the two of them just drink, and eye each other off. Shame he hadn't heard back from some of his other Ben-Hassrath contacts before the Inquisition got here.  
He'd really love to know what kind of merc company turfs out a Vashoth mage who speaks some Elvhen.  
  
"The Chargers seem like an excellent company." There's a note of wistfulness in her voice - the first town he's next in, he's looking for answers.  
  
"Yeah, but you're not just getting the boys, you're getting _me_." He stands, careful to avoid putting too much weight on his left leg. Joint's beginning to freeze up in the rain. "You need a front-line bodyguard? I'm your man. Whatever it is. Demons, dragons - the bigger the better." He moves down towards the water's edge and she rises sinuously as he steps past her. She has to be doing it on purpose. Now, for the deal breaker.  
  
"Now... there's one other thing. Might piss you off. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?" The pebbles grind under her feet and she swears, low and vicious. In Qunlat, too. Bull turns to face her - huh, that's what happens when blue skin blanches. "From that reaction, I'd say you might've." But she's not setting him on fire. Yet. "They handle information, security.... They're spies. Or, I should say, we're spies."  
  
"The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I've been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the ones in charge, and send reports on what's happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on? I'll share them with you."  
  
"You're a fucking Qunari spy, and you just _told_ me?" There's a knife on her belt, and the warrior with an eyeball on her chest reaches for her sword. He's gotta talk her down before shit gets hectic. So he keeps his voice low, calm.  
  
"What happened at the Conclave was bad. That Breach could destroy the entire world. So whatever I am... I'm on your side." Her nostrils flare, but she's a good enough mage that she doesn't spark or freeze the ground. He's out of arm's reach, but he can just about hear the cogs turning in her head.  
  
"Hissrad, besratheri, salit...?" For someone that was raised outside the Qun, she's remarkably well-informed about the structure of it. Maybe she ran with a member of priesthood at some point. In any case, she's still shifting her weight back and forth, hand close to the dagger-hilt.  
  
Getting stabbed by a potential employer isn't the _worst_ thing that could happen, but he'd prefer to not.  
  
"Hissrad." Her shoulders relax fractionally, and the creases around her eyes fade away.

"Ebala hissra eva." He shrugs, noting the fact that she speaks Qunlat... convincingly. To a Qunari, they'd know. But to a _bas_? They wouldn't be able to tell the difference. "Bas-toh; Hissrad at Qalaban?"  
  
Bull laughs out loud at the insult, and it seems to break the tension. The dwarf smiles, and slings his crossbow back onto his back, apparently convinced that the danger's passed. The Seeker's not as convinced.  
  
"The Iron Bull will do." He replies in Trade - the Chargers get antsy when they can't understand him for long periods of time. "And what about you? Yelling 'Herald!' on the battlefield is kinda unwieldy."  
  
The Herald snorts and rolls her eyes. "Why not? Cassandra does." Cassandra - the Right Hand of the Divine, now isn't that something? - makes a noise that he can only categorise as disgusted. "But since my name is slightly easier to yell... I am Adaar."  
  
Flamethrower. Of course. Fitting title for a battlemage, especially one that's not afraid to throw herself down a cliff to join a fight.  
"Just. One more question." He takes another long pull from his tankard, and makes an affirmative noise. "I'm guessing you'll be sending reports back?"  
  
"Yeah, but I'll run them through your spymaster - Leliana, wasn't it? She'll look at them first." Adaar nods slowly, water running down her nose. For a long moment, there's little noise but the sea crashing, birds crying, and the Chargers drinking.  
  
"Alright, you're in." A broad, toothy grin crosses Bull's face. Adaar smiles back, and takes a drink.  
  
"Excellent. Krem! Tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The Chargers just got hired!" A howl of displeasure rises from where the Chargers have sprawled out over the pebbled beach. It can't be comfortable, but it's the principle of the thing. That, and the burn of the alcohol will help ease the pain.  
  
"What about the casks, Chief? We just broke them open! With _axes_." Krem stands, arms spread wide in a 'you can't be serious' kind of gesture. More of the same pagentry, same old pattern all the Chargers know.  
  
"You're Tevinter, right? Try blood magic." He doesn't miss the wince from Adaar, but writes it off as a sane reaction to an off-colour joke. At least, he hopes so. It'd suck if his new boss turned out to be a maleficar, because then he'd have to kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qunlat Translations:  
>  **Hissrad, besratheri, salit** \- ranks within the Ben-Hassrath  
>  **Ebala hissra eva** \- You're a bad liar.  
>  **Bas-toh; Hissrad at Qalaban?** What do I call you; Liar or Dumb Cow?
> 
> Adaar is missing the Valo-Kas more than is probably healthy, ok. Why else would she mouth off to an actual, literal spy?


	2. Watching Me, Watching You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaar tries to get used to having a capital-s Spy at her back.

Adaar can feel the Iron Bull's gaze on the back of her neck, and it's unnerving her. Alright, she may have let her heart rule, rather than being properly smart about it - but she _misses_ Shokrakar. Even the fact that the Iron Bull's Ben-Hassrath doesn't stop part of her mind from relaxing when she spots his bulk out of the corner of her eye.

He's trying to pick her apart, she knows it. Void take her, she's not trained for these kind of negotiations. That's Taarlok's job, or even Tully's. This Adaar's job was to provide a distraction, to put potential clients off-balance. It's why she ate less, kept slim and lissom (for a Vashothari).

She never should have been the one to hire the Iron Bull's Chargers. Just like she shouldn't have survived whatever levelled the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"Copper for your thoughts, Boss?" She looks down, and grins. Varric has to jog to keep up with her - which will always be amusing - but she slows her pace. He doesn't even bother to disguise his gusty sigh of relief.

"Not keen on the rain, that's all. I can't smell anything but wet and salt." She's sopping wet, and it sucks. There's going to be _chafing_. Ugh. "Also not looking forward to dealing with those Blades of Hessian."

The purposeful mispronunciation draws a long-suffering sigh from Cassandra.

"Herald, please, it's Hessarian-" Adaar flaps her hand behind her - an _I know_ and a _please shut up_ all at once. Movement, around a boulder that hides the lower part of the path up the hill. Beside her, Varric readies Bianca. And behind her, she hears a sword being drawn.

A mercenary glances round the edge of the boulder, and yells a battle cry. Varric opens his mouth to snark, before an echoing roar drowns out the sea-noise. Adaar's shoulder's slump.

" _Fuck_." A bear barrels down the path, and the Blades' warcries soon turn to screams of terror. She unshoulders her staff and sends her aura skittering into the focus carved into the chunk of wolfbone at the tip. "Why is it always bears?" And then she sweeps into the battle, a dozen tiny fireballs streaking ahead of her to cling and burn against flesh and fur and armour alike. Her ears pricked, she hears the humming song of Bianca half a heartbeat before a bolt staggers the merc with the tower shield.

Recovering, he makes to charge her - leaving his back open for the Iron Bull's devasting downward strike. Cassandra's taunting the bear like it's personally insulted her, and that leaves her with... that fellow over there. The one who spotted them. Her lip curls into a predatory grin, teeth bared.

Adaar folds the Fade around herself and surges across the stones, rematerialising well inside the merc's guard, almost close enough to kiss - so she rears back, bringing her forehead down with an almighty crack. He drops likes a sack of rotted potatoes, and she turns back to the fight.

The bear rears up and she casts a barrier almost without thinking - sidestepping smoothly to get a clear shot with flames. She can't tell who's more surprised when the bear's claws don't flay open Bull's bare arm, and frankly she doesn't care. She can _feel_ the dance, it's almost there--

One of Bianca's bolts slides home softly through the bear's eye, and it falls.

Adaar feels the loss like it's a slap to the face. It's been so _long_ since she's had a proper fight, and these, these teases aren't anywhere close to satisfying.

"Huh." She looks up at the Iron Bull, not bothering to hide the expression on her face. Gods help her, it's been so long since she had to look up at someone - but she can't read the expression on his face.

She turns, and starts heading up the hill. She knows now where their camp is, and she's made up her mind. Mercy's Crest is tucked securely under her breastplate, and she'll use it. If that fucker who's been murdering Harding's scouts wants a one-on-one fight, then he'll fucking get one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Apologies for the wait, but the conclusion to this little story should be up either today or tomorrow.~~
> 
> This story is now complete; it seemed unfair to leave that little 2/3 hanging up there when I had little inspiration for writing the final chapter.


End file.
